CHAPTER VI
EXPEDITION TO THE OREGON DESERT IN 1877
At Monument Station, I was surprised to see Mr. S. W. Williston get aboard with all his outfit. Williston did not know at first that I was on the train, and when he entered my car, he was greatly astonished, thinking that I was on his trail. He tried to find out my destination, but failed. We slept together at Denver. Then he took a train south, while I went north toward Cheyenne and the West.
Onward our train sped toward the land of the setting sun, through the grand and impressive scenery of the Rockies and Sierra Nevadas. At Sacramento I took the railroad for Redding, where, with seven other passengers, I entered a Concord coach drawn by a team of eight horses, and continued my journey by stage.
It was a lovely August evening. The moon was at its full, and the night was almost as bright as day. No sound broke the deep silence, except now and then the whoo of an owl as it called to its mate far away in the depth of the forest, or the plash of running water falling in cascades over the shelving rocks and dashing against the boulders.
Higher and higher we climbed, through primeval forests of spruce and fir, whose branches clove the sky a hundred feet above our heads. The rarefied air filled our lungs with its life-giving tonic, exhilarating us like wine. We knew that far above us rose Mount Shasta, the giant of the range, but for a time the heavy timber shut out the view, and we could see only the road ahead, winding up and up through the forests. Then suddenly, without warning, we moved above the timber-line, and Mount Shasta stood revealed in all its beauty, a perfect cone, towering four thousand feet into the air, its robes of everlasting snow glistening in the moonlight. Above, in the clear blue of the sky, the stars sparkled like jewels in an immortal canopy.
It was the first time that any of us had looked upon that majestic scene, and whatever may have been the differences of temperament among us, we were one in the feeling of awe which the glorious picture inspired. It laid a spell upon us; we were dumb before the invisible presence of the Power that had reared this stupendous pinnacle, and involuntarily our thoughts turned to that “city that hath foundations, whose builder and maker is God.”
Then to break the awful silence, and give some vent to our emotions, we broke out into the old song, “’Way down upon the Suwanee River”; and so we journeyed on for many hours, never out of sight of that majestic form.
At Ashland I was obliged to wait for a driver with a buckboard and a team of ponies to take me to Fort Klamath, Oregon. I was at that time a great lover of the gentle art of fishing, and early in the morning, before it was fully light, I was astir among the great live-oaks that grace the town. Walking through the sleeping village, I ran across the footprints of a large grizzly bear in the dust of the road, and followed them through the vacant streets. Wherever a gate had been left open, the bear had entered the yard, walked around the house, and come out at the gate again. I hoped to get a glimpse of him, but was disappointed, as the tracks led into the gloom of the forest. So I went fishing, and caught some speckled beauties for breakfast.
That evening I was driven over to Fort Klamath, where I was kindly invited to take possession of the commanding officer’s quarters and make myself at home; an invitation which I proceeded to accept at once.